Whispering
by Songs to Aging Children
Summary: Alyssum Sorrel, the quiet and obedient daughter of District Twelve's apothecary, lives in a world of daisy chains and honey—until her best friend is torn from her side by the Hunger Games. She discovers solace in a tryst with Clay Everdeen, a coal miner from the Seam, but when your best friend is dead, with whom do you share your secrets?
1. Chapter 1

He always comes to my family's shop on Sunday, when the drowsy late afternoon hovers over the mountains like warm breath. Over the past few years, Clay's arrangement with my father has become the only distinct part of my week. The days blur into one monotonous expanse of time, punctuated only by his visits.

My relationship with Clay Everdeen could hardly even be called a relationship. Once a week, he strolls into my family's apothecary with his foraging sack, looking to trade his wild herbs for coins, or, occasionally, medicine. I can't imagine who the supplements could be for, as Clay is always the picture of health. He never misses a Sunday visit, even when the winter snow makes a thick blanket over all the green the mountains have to offer. Even then, he finds something—pine needles, maybe—to bring my family.

We hardly speak, as I am under direct orders of not interrupting business transactions, but he did give me a gift once. It was two springs ago, when I was fifteen, a week after my grandmother died. After making his trade with my father, Clay furtively clasped the freshest lily I'd ever seen into my hand, and his Seam-gray eyes held an intensity I had never before and never again seen in him. I pressed the lily in one of our larger, dustier plant books, a child hiding some priceless treasure.

I don't know when or why I started feeling different toward Clay. As I grew older, I discovered that I was subconsciously doing things to please him: wearing my nicest dresses on Sunday mornings, volunteering to mop the floors on Saturday evenings. My father has always said that I am a dedicated worker, but even he is perplexed by this initiative. My mother knows better, unfortunately.

"My, Alyssum, don't you look pretty today," she calls to me in a singsong voice as I walk in the front door of our shop. Maysilee and I had spent the morning in the Meadow, braiding clover and daisies in each other's hair, hiding away from the duties awaiting us in our homes.

Though Maysilee is my closest friend, I can't help but envy her at times. Maysilee, with her adoring sister, while I am an only child. Maysilee, with her sweet-shop home that smells of honey and chocolate, while mine reeks of boiled herbs and wounded men.

I murmur a thank you and lift a linen apron off its hook on the wall and tie it around my waist before approaching the stove, where my mother is stirring a concoction of raspberry leaves and ginger root.

"For nausea?" I ask.

My mother nods, furrowing her brow and gazing into the sweet smelling pot. "Mrs. Bracken has morning sickness." Her voice is distant. I am not changing the subject so easily, it seems. "I see you're wearing your blue lace dress. Is there some special occasion I don't know about?" She gives me a long, suspicious look from the corner of her eye, white-blond eyebrows raised.

I am impressed with my ability to lie. "I went to church with Maysilee this morning," I say evenly.

"Oh? And what did Mr. Mason speak about today?"

"Charity."

My family is not spiritual, and neither am I. In history class, we were taught about our religious ancestors, who fought wars and slaughtered men on the behalf of their gods. Panem has no gods. In District Twelve, we have one church, and its caretaker, Mr. Mason, speaks weekly on various disembodied virtues. Charity, chastity, honesty. I have only been to the church a handful of times in my life, always with Maysilee's family. Some people need spirituality to cope with life, even those who pull taffy for a living.

I am instructed to go water the potted flowers on our front stoop. While all the useful, practical herbs are grown in our small backyard, we do have a collection of pansies out front to give a welcoming appearance. I take up the tin watering can and go outside, glad to be free of my mother's questions. The outdoor air is thick with summer sweetness, and I move my braid to protect my neck from the strong sunlight. I plunge my finger in the dark, potted soil, checking its dryness, before extracting it and wiping it clean on my apron.

"Alyssum Sorrel," says a voice behind me, playful and deep, and I jump.

Clay Everdeen is standing at the foot of the stoop with his telltale burlap sack in hand and a wide grin on his suntanned face. Perched at the top of the stairs, I can make eye contact with him without looking up as I usually do. Clay is tall and willowy, as opposed to my petite, almost childlike build.

"Are you sure it's wise to carry around a game bag so obviously?" I ask. The Peacekeepers have been brutal lately.

"What game bag?" He replies with a sheepish look. "This is just a bunch of parsley from the Meadow! I picked it for the fine people of this establishment." He makes a grand, sweeping bow in my direction, and I feel my cheeks grow hot as I shake my head and chuckle.

I lead him inside, and my father comes downstairs to talk business. Unlike other families who deal in food, we have no baked goods or meat to trade for Clay's herbs, so we pay him in actual money—though surprisingly little, as his prices are low. My father appraises the various herbs Clay has gathered: peppermint, foxglove, bee balm, and two types of leaves I am unfamiliar with. I watch as Clay's rough, miner's hands extract the delicate flowers from his bag deftly, placing them on the wooden counter as he makes small talk with my parents.

"How are the mines treating you, Clay?" my father asks. This is only Clay's second month working in there. I silently wonder if that question is rude, or if we know Clay well enough to ask such a thing.

"Can't complain, Mr. Sorrel," he replies good-naturedly, apparently not bothered. "And how's this place treating you?"

"Can't complain, can't complain."

Before I know it, my father is placing coins in his tan palm and they say their goodbyes, shaking hands and nodding at each other. Clay throws his bag over his shoulder and approaches me, or, rather, the door, as I haven't moved from it since escorting him inside. My hand is beginning to spasm from clutching the heavy watering can.

"Alyssum, don't let them work you too hard," he wisecracks, observing the dirt on my apron, and he ambles out the door.

My face is as red as a strawberry.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! Giving credit where credit is due, I took Alyssum's name from Mejhiren's _When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun_, probably my favorite fic of all time.

**Wanted: **Beta reader! Must be well-versed in the HG fandom, a bit grammar crazy, and very speedy (because I am an impatient dork). I am a great internet friend, I swear, PM me and find out!


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you ever liked a boy who wasn't a merchant's son?"

"What, you mean a boy from the Seam?" Maysilee looks up at me from the hairbrush she has been meticulously cleaning. Her face does not have as much surprise in it as I had anticipated.

"Not necessarily," I reply, shrugging.

"Well, if he isn't a merchant boy, and he isn't a Seam boy, who is he supposed to be, Alys? Have you got it bad for Titus?" She laughs at the very thought, and I can't help but smile. Titus has been the Head Peacekeeper since before we were born. He is at least fifty, I think, and probably married. _Are Peacekeepers allowed to be married?_ I've never thought about it, and I've also never seen Titus with a companion.

"It's hypothetical, Maysilee, I was just wondering."

"Well, I'll ignore that blatant lie for now and remind you that I've never liked any boy, anyway," Maysilee retorts, setting the hairbrush down on my bedside table, next to the solitary candle that lights us.

Occasionally, Maysilee sleeps over at my house. I don't have a twin sister that I have to share a bedroom with, which makes my room prime sleepover real estate. There's also the fact that Maysilee's parents are much more relaxed than my own; they don't mind if she's half an hour late to her pre-school candy duties the next morning because she was sleeping here.

"So, who is it, then?" Maysilee asks after a few moments of my silence. She reclines on my bed, her long, flaxen hair spilling over the pillow as if pleased to be released from its usual braids. While the majority of the merchant class is all blonde, I feel as though Maysilee and I have particularly similar shades. I like to think we're very closely related and just don't have the paperwork to prove it—bonded not only by friendship, but by blood as well.

"I don't even like him that much," I stammer, lying next to her, our faces less than a foot apart. The candle behind her head makes her hair a golden halo, but leaves her face dark. "It's not a huge deal."

"Al. You know I'm not going to let you rest until you tell me. Who knows all your secrets?"

"You do." I can't help but smile.

"And who keeps all of them? No matter what?"

"You do."

"And _who_ are you madly in love with at the moment?"

I pause and take a moment to roll onto my back and stare up at a knot in the wooden ceiling. It's much easier to confess to an inanimate object, I've found. "Clay Everdeen," I breathe and turn back over quickly to explain myself. "And I'm not madly in—"

"Al. Cool down. I don't blame you—at all. I mean, sure, he's a Seam guy. But, he is good to look at. Oh, and that voice!"

I don't know what she's talking about, and it must be clear in my face.

"His _voice_, Alys! Have you never heard him sing?"

"No," I mutter.

"That's a small wonder in itself, honestly. I think he's been singing every time I've ever seen him. You know, walking through town and whatnot, with that bag of his. Always singing! Maybe you make him nervous, so he shuts up around you."

"_I_ make _him_ nervous?" I scoff.

"Don't play dumb, Al. You're the prettiest girl in the whole district, practically."

I open my mouth to protest, and she quickly clasps her hand over it to stop me.

"There's a reason the Mellark boys always sit with us at lunch, you know. And it isn't to watch me push my peas around my plate. Boys like you, Al. I'm not jealous. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. You're my best friend, and it's high time you realized your advantages in life; everyone has them. I have my charisma and my peppermints. Clay Everdeen has his voice. You have your disgustingly beautiful face."

Maysilee removes her hand from my mouth and discovers the smile on my face.

I want to argue, but she's right. If I'm not pretty, what do I have to offer? I'm not exceptionally witty, or funny, or brave. I'd consider myself more thoughtful than the average person, but that's most likely just a product of growing up as an apothecary's daughter, tending to the sick. _I've never taken a lily to a girl I hardly know, in honor of her dead grandmother._

"Let's just hope your new boyfriend doesn't get reaped next week," Maysilee adds, her tone a little darker. My throat suddenly feels dry, and I nod. I pull the covers over us in hopes of ridding my skin of its crawling sensation.

I haven't thought about the reaping since Wednesday night, when President Snow came on our television to announce the terms of this Quarter Quell. "On the fiftieth anniversary," he announced, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district is required to send twice as many tributes: two male and two female from each." My parents both continued to watch the screen silently, but I looked at my father and saw his jaw tense, and a single vein near his temple bulged. _It isn't fair._ But how can you expect fairness in a life where you're not even promised the safety of your children?

I purposely don't ruminate on things that upset me. I have a talent for ignoring problems, which may or may not be a good thing. It keeps my mental state in check, at least. So, I haven't given myself the chance to really worry about the Quarter Quell. I've opted to not think about the fact that I have double the odds of going to the Games, as does Maysilee, her sister, and all of the children of our district.

"Let's go to sleep," I murmur. "Six o'clock comes early." Maysilee blows out the bedside candle in agreement and settles into the bed.

I dream of two Cornucopias, filled to the brim with peppermints, in an arena that reeks of sickly-sweet honey and cloves. I awake suddenly and the sky outside is still black. Maysilee has laid her head on my shoulder in her sleep, and her hair has the same aroma as the air in my dream arena. She whimpers quietly, and I know that she, too, must be fighting in the arena right now.

I can only hope that our nightmare remains just that—only a nightmare.

The odds are not in our favor.


	3. Chapter 3

The week ends, and Sunday calls to me like a blithe canary.

Early morning sunlight streams through my window and lands on the bottom half of my blanket. I wake to the feeling of uncomfortably warm feet, trying in vain to shift my position and hide my toes from the prying sun.

I pull the coverlet away and press my feet to the floor lightly. My parents are moving around downstairs; my father is laughing. I pull my pale yellow chiffon dress over my frame and secure half of my hair up and out of my face, then leave my bedroom.

The air in my house is always so thick, especially on Sundays, as my parents utilize the weekend to make huge vats of teas and pastes. Downstairs, in the shop, all six eyes of the stove are busy boiling or simmering something, and the starkly different aromas float up from each pot and coil together into one complex scent, lilting around the ground floor as if searching for something, filling every nook and cranny. The walls of this house have more layers of odors than layers of paint, I bet, each new coat of scent applied every Sunday. Years and years of scents: garlic, red clover, lemongrass, vinegar. If the deep wrinkles in miners' faces are filled with coal dust, mine will someday be filled with pollen, and my skin will be soaked with the smells of herbs. There are worse things to smell like.

"Good morning, little rosebud!" My father sits at the counter, brandishing a mug of coffee and a smile.

"Morning, Daddy," I reply, planting a kiss on his pink cheek and sitting next to him at the counter. My father is a robust man with a pink complexion and a bald spot growing at the crown of his head. He is short and thick and the epitome of loveable.

"Have a cheesebun," he says and pushes a plate full of them toward me. "I traded with the Mellarks earlier. You can always count on a baker to be up before the crack of dawn."

"Unlike a certain somebody we know," adds my mother, turning from her sentinel at the stove to give me a look of contempt. "I tried waking you twice, once with a mug of coffee practically right under your nose."

I offer an apology, and she shoos it away with her hand. "Don't be sorry, it's Sunday. I'm sure you needed the rest."

She turns back to her concoctions and I bite into a cheesebun. It is soft and buttery and incredibly delicious. I'm glad we have a half dozen of them, because eating just one would be torturous.

I alternate between bites of cheesebuns and sips of coffee until I'm satiated, and my father sits a basket and a piece of paper on the counter next to me. "I've got some errands for you to run for me, sweetie," he says. I glance at the list. The chores are simple: things like getting milk from the Goat Man and picking up laundry. Doing these sort of things is how I earn my keep in the household. Why hire an apprentice when you have an able bodied teenage girl to drop off your parcels? I don't mind, it seems fair most of the time. However, the sheer number of errands today is daunting—about ten or so to complete. These chores will take me hours to finish.

I hope I don't miss Clay's visit.

I also hope this yellow dress doesn't stain easily, because after four hours of trudging around town, I am sweating like a pig. The afternoon sun is hot on the top of my head, and I'm sure my scalp has blistered. Eight items are crossed off the list, and I'm near home, so I decide to stop by and grab some water and perhaps a hat. I stop at the front door and survey my list, holding my pencil in my mouth, when the door creaks open. Clay Everdeen is leaving my parents' shop, coins in hand.

"Alyssum! I thought I'd missed you. Out doing your father's grunt work, huh?"

"Yeah," I reply. "I've only got two things left to do, so…" _Titillating conversation, Alys,_ I can hear Maysilee saying in my head. _Absolutely enthralling_.

"Really? Only two? Mind if I look?" He looks at me quizzically.

I pass him the paper silently and feel my eyebrows furrow in amused curiosity. Clay steps toward me and gingerly places the pencil in my mouth between his fingertips, and I release it into his hand. Using the storefront as a surface to bear down on, he scribbles something, then returns my items to me. "See, that's funny…because I see three."

In my hand, my errand list reads:

Drop off broken necklace at jeweler

Make elderberry syrup

Meet Clay at the Meadow at sundown

I scoff and look up, but Clay is already walking away, smiling roguishly at me. "I'll see you at sundown, Alyssum Sorrel!" He waves at me and breaks into a quick jog, disappearing before I could protest.

_That foolish, deceitful, _hilarious_ boy._

I never even go in my house. I run the block to Maysilee's and yank the door open, scouring the room for her. Her mother gives me a strange look, and I realize that I must look like a mussed, sweaty crazy person. "Hi Mrs. Donner," I say breathlessly, smoothing my hair. "Is Maysilee home?"

"She's upstairs. Are you alright, Alyssum?"

"Oh, I'm fine, it's just…uhm…really hot outside. May I?" I ask, indicating the stairs. Mrs. Donner nods her assent, and I climb up, calling my friend's name.

"In here!" I follow Maysilee's voice and discover her in her bedroom, playing with some needlework. She has been chewing a strand of her yellow hair in concentration, but releases it from her lips as she sees me. "Al! What's up?"

"This is what's up," I say, tossing my to-do list on her bed and sitting next to it. She fumbles at the note and reads it, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Wait. What? Your to-do list says to hang out with Clay Everdeen?"

"No, goof. He wrote it." I explain the story to her, and her face lights in excitement.

"Ahh, no way! You have to remember everything he says and then tell me, okay? What are you going to wear?" She runs to her wardrobe and wrenches it open, the hinges squeaking in complaint, clearly looking for something I could borrow.

My nervous laughter catches in my chest. "I'm not going, May."

Maysilee turns on her heel sharply and stares at me with narrowed eyes. "_What?_ Are you an idiot? You're totally going!"

"I'd be way too nervous to have a halfway decent conversation with him," I say. "Besides, what am I supposed to tell my parents, May? 'Hey, Mom, I'm gonna go hang out with that Seam guy we hardly know. I'm sure you're very excited. See ya in a week!'"

"Have you considered…oh, I don't know…_not_ telling your parents?" Maysilee looks at me mischievously.

"What would I even say?" I have never snuck out of the house. The thought of my mother's wrath if I were caught terrifies me. That, and I've never had a reason to sneak out before.

"Say that you're having dinner with my family." Maysilee is apparently well practiced in this art of sneaking out to see boys, especially for a girl who claims to have never liked anyone.

"But—what if they come over here to check on me?" I bite my lip.

"They won't, Al. Have they ever come to check on you when you were legitimately having dinner here? No. They'll be too excited for their _alone time_."

My nose scrunches at the thought of my parents having _alone time_.

"Quit being a baby and go for it," Maysilee urges. Is she that desperate to live vicariously through me?

I cave. "Alright."

The rest of the afternoon flies by, and when half past seven o'clock comes, I find myself walking through town towards the Meadow. Not many people are outside, save a few playing children who must be waiting for dusk to go home. I wonder if I should have brought anything for our meeting—bread, maybe? It seemed silly to pack for a picnic. What does he want from me? Information? Some sort of friendship? Or…more than friendship? Even just thinking about that makes my heart speed up a little. Clay never showed me any attention at school before he graduated; he always ate lunch with his Seam friends, only talking to me briefly on Sundays. Why now?

I reach the Meadow before I have any concrete ideas and scan the place for a sign of him. Nothing. It isn't quite sunset yet. I sit in the middle of the field, facing away from the electric fence so I can see when Clay arrives. I look in the direction of the Seam, and my hands idly pull at the tall grass around me. I hear a rustle behind me and snap my head over my shoulder to find Clay on the other side of the fence, grinning.

"Hey, Alyssum."

"What're you doing over there?" I ask.

"Just checking the traps I set this morning." He shakes his game bag, indicating that he was successful.

"What did you catch?"

"Rabbits. You wanna see?" He lifts his eyebrows and smiles with pride.

"No," I reply, wrinkling my nose at the thought. I have no problem with dead animals—my mother taught me how to skin a rabbit once—but sticking my head into a sack of them doesn't sound too fun.

He moves his hand to touch the fence, and I gasp in surprise. "Stop!"

Clay freezes. "What?"

"You'll get electrocuted!"

He laughs. At me?

"It isn't turned on, Alyssum. If it was, you'd hear it." He shakes his head at my apparent ignorance.

I tilt my head, listening for the sound of electricity. Clay's right, there is only silence. He chuckles and shimmies under the fence. His lithe build is perfect for such a task. After making it to my side of the fence, he pats the red dirt off his shirt and pants, and then seats himself next to me, placing the bag of rabbit corpses behind us. The evening breeze sings as it combs through the tall grass, and it rumples Clay's dark hair. Sundown has officially begun. The orange light makes his olive skin glow pleasantly, almost like coal embers. He is remarkably clean, compared to most miners, maybe because he's only worked there for a few months. I look down at his hands resting on his knees, and his fingernails are pristine. They should be dirty; after all, Clay had spent all morning hunting, right? He must've bathed very recently. I suddenly feel the urge to lean over and smell his skin. I resist, of course.

"So, uhm, what's up?" I ask.

"Not much," he replies.

There are a few moments of silence.

"Why did you invite me here?" I look at Clay, and he looks back at me like I've asked him a doozy of a question. He sighs and lays back on his elbows, searching the purple and orange sky for words.

"Because I want to know you better." His voice has a tone to his that makes me not question the honesty of his statement.

"Why?" I ask.

"You're interesting."

I can't help but scoff. How could I be interesting? I'm about as boring as they get. That's how I've lived my life. I set up the jokes, and Maysilee makes them. I do my homework, Maysilee copies it—sometimes. I am the flavorless broth of a soup with spicy and exotic ingredients.

"I am not interesting," I retort nervously.

"Have you ever seen Jewelweed?" The question seems so arbitrary. He must be changing the subject.

"Of course." I envision the red-orange blossoms, similar to an orchid in shape, that my mother uses to treat poison ivy. The Jewelweed in our backyard has a wire dome around it to keep pests away; my father says that it's nature's dessert.

"Well, I doubt that _Jewelweed_ knows that it's delicious. But, the hummingbird knows it is." Clay smiles at me.

"Wow. Does that line work on the other girls?"

"No," he says. "They don't know what Jewelweed is."

We laugh together at that. This is the last we talk about Jewelweed, or about me being interesting. We spend the next hour lying in the tall grass, discussing people in the district we both know and laughing. Clay teaches me a game called Frog or Bird, where you decide if someone looks more like a bird or a frog, based on facial features. "Flint Westby?" "Total bird." We both say it in unison and erupt into laughter. We make fun of the Capitol citizens who show up on television and their botched facial surgeries. I don't think I've ever laughed so much in my life.

Before long, I know it's time to go. I would've had plenty of time to eat dinner at Maysilee's by now. I rise to my feet, dusting my yellow dress and silently praying there aren't any grass stains. Next time, I'll bring a blanket.

Next time.

"Can we do this again?" Clay seems to be on the exact same page as me. I nod.

"When?" He looks at me expectantly.

"Uhm…next Sunday?" I offer.

He agrees and rises to his feet as well, collecting his bag of rabbits. "I'll see you then. Well, at the Reaping, too."

I nod and manage to croak out a "good luck."

"Good luck to you, too, Alyssum."

* * *

Many thanks to my lovely Beta readers, **Ninazadzia ** and **odds are never in our fa****vor**.

Be on the lookout for Chapter 4; it's coming within a week!

As always, reviews are welcomed and very much appreciated.


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